City on Fire
by Axemili
Summary: Two master vampires. One city...big enough for their lone needs, small enough for just one of them. Yet neither of them could have anticipated a vacationing Vampire Slayer or a vengeance-seeking mercenary caught in the middle.


Peaceful. That was one word she never thought she would use to describe Sunnydale. And yet, as Buffy Summers idly stared out the window as the torrent of rain swept down upon the _Boca del Inferno_, there was no denying the sense of contentedness swelling in her heart.

The rain seemed cleansing…no matter how much it stung as the little pellets of water whipped against the skin. 

It seemed like the first time she had _really_ looked at the scenery of the relatively large Southern California town. Not to scan for possible ambush points. Not to observe for possible Vampire nests. Just to…look. Enjoy. And enjoy she did as her mother's SUV swept through the sparsely congested streets of Sunnydale, cutting a beeline towards the airport.

One could say the wry grin upon her lips was from the vacation a mere plane flight away. Even she couldn't deny that was obviously part of the equation. Yet the real source of happiness came from the fact that, for the first time in years, she was going to act like a normal teenager. No slaying. No demons. No responsibility. No weight of the world set firmly upon her aching young shoulders. She was going to be normal. Granted, it was only for two weeks…but two weeks was enough. It _had_ to be enough.

"Oh god…this is gonna be _so_ awesome!" Shrilled out the high-pitched voice, laced with evidence of the barely-contained excitement threatening to explode any second.

The grin stretched even further as Buffy turned to look at her fire-haired friend.

"I mean…a vacation! Us! Just the two of us…in Seattle!" Continued Willow Rosenberg, her seatbelt practically straining as she bounced frantically up and down in the leather seats.

The grin vanished as her eyes suddenly caught the dark, shadowed spot at the edge of the forest. Almost subconsciously, Buffy's fingers rose to her breast. She could almost feel the sword-inflicted scar beneath the leather of her dark jacket.

Concerned, Willow craned her neck, attempting to see the source of her friend's agitation. A sudden understanding overcame her face as her eyes caught hold of the spot…stained with the slayer's blood.

"Buffy…" She said passionately, reaching out a comforting hand.

"It…it's alright." Muttered the Slayer quietly, a fake, superficial smile now etched across her beautiful face. 

Yet they had been through too much together…it didn't take much for the young witch to see the agitation that had come over her friend.

"Really. It's okay." Yet it was then that even the superficial smile vanished altogether as her eyes glazed over, shivering as she remembered the cold steel of the Napoleonic Infantry Sabre Briquet slicing through her skin. Another few centimeters closer and the maniacal old Vampire would have pierced her very heart…completing the task in which so many of his comrades had failed.

She had gone into shock. Her. The Slayer. Reflexes faster than light. Stronger than Hercules could ever have dreamed of. Faster than a hungry Falcon. Stamina greater than the Energizer Bunny. And she'd gone into shock. 

It was thanks to instincts honed over countless hours of training that her final, remaining stake pierced the heart of the vampire. Yet by then she was near gone. She didn't even hear the noisy clatter as the old Sabre clattered against the pavement.

"You…you're not…alright. You're not okay." Murmured Willow quietly, gently patting her friend on the shoulder.

"I will be," Buffy quietly answered. "I hope."

  
  
  
  
  


_New York:_

Frank Kellman wasn't religious. He smirked everytime he heard the word 'god'. He fingered every _Rabbi_ he came across. _Imans_ everywhere hid in fear of his sharp tongue. 

At least Kellman had one redeeming factor. He sure as hell wasn't prejudiced to any religion. He hated them all.

Yet even god would have heard this Atheist as he tramped along the streets of Queens, the biting cold nipping mercilessly at his exposed face, quietly swearing in every language he knew. 

The scar on his chin began throbbing once again. It seemed like it would throb every goddamn time it was exposed to any extreme conditions. Too hot - it would start throbbing like his lust-induced dick. Too cold - it would start throbbing like his lust-induced dick.

His clear blue eyes scythed through winter air, boring deep into the tall man's head, walking briskly a few meters ahead. The tall man wasn't easy to locate. In the mid-morning crowd, he looked like any other businessman, the thick woolen trench coat wrapped tight around his skinny torso.

Shivering, Kellmen snuggled deeper into the old sheepskin bomber jacket. It was actually quite warm. They had designed this line of clothing for those World War 2 pilots back in the days when B-17s and B-24s weren't pressurized…or heated. No…it was his damn face that would freeze off.

Cautiously…like the seasoned professional Kellmen knew he was, the tall man subtly twisted around, scanning for tails.

But like the professional Kellmen was, he faded into the crowd, averting his eyes as he strolled along, rubbing the palms of his hands together viciously. 

Through his peripheral vision, Kellmen watched as the tall man turned back forth, confident - for the time being - that his 'six' was clear.

Silently, Frank thanked the seven long years he had spent as a mercenary in Africa. And then his mind flashed back to the betrayals, to the death and carnage and to the out-dated equipment he had been introduced to; and he swiftly reeled back in the thanks.

No thanks of his would last to his mercenary days. Not while he lived.

Subconsciously, his fingers slipped through the un-zipped jacket, brushing against the mahogany grips of the Smith & Wesson Bodyguard.

Somewhere down the mercenary line, Kellmen had lost faith in all automatics. Pistols just didn't cut it for him. Maybe it was when his 'top of the line' Beretta 92 had jammed on him in the middle of a heroin factory. 

Silently scolding himself for his inattention, Kellmen roughly pulled himself from his reverie, watching intently as the tall man gracefully turned, hopping up the limestone steps to the huge, hi-tech apartment building. 

"Shit." He muttered quietly under his breath. This put a complication into things. The tall man obviously knew the needed password to get in the door. He didn't. But like the professional he was, Kellmen didn't bother to speed into a mad dash for the door. That would only draw unwanted attention.

Calmly, the young mercenary made his way up the door, heading for the intercom. 

The easiest way to sneak into an apartment building was to wait for another tenant to head in, slipping through the closing door. This could take time, however, and time was a luxury Kellmen did not have. 

Randomly, he selected a name, roughly punching down on the red button next to 'P. Gonzalez'. 

It was a few seconds before a tinny - though obviously masculine - voice came on.

"Yeah? What is it?"

"Mister Gonzalez," Came Kellmen's strong, charismatic voice. "My name is…"

Like a computer, Frank desperately fished through the rubble of his thoughts for a proper name. "My name is Agent Mitchell Sloane, with the FBI."

Kellmen could almost see the worried frown on the unseen man's face at the other end of the line.

"What do ya' want with me?"

Quickly, Kellmen once again glanced at the name.

_Gonzalez. Hispanic. I hope he hates Nazis. _

"Look, I'm off-duty right now, but I have reason to believe that a group of neo-Nazis have holed up in your apartment complex. I don't have enough for a warrant…not yet, but I need to check this out."

Silence merely answered him, and for a moment, worry fluttered through his mind. Yet relief came when the lock on the door clicked open.

"Thank you, Mister Gonzalez." Muttered Frank as he swiveled about, prying open the door and stepping inside.

  
  
  
  
  


_Seattle:_

The night was calm, peaceful and quiet. The serenity was interrupted only by the echoing footfalls as the heavy steel-toad boots slapped arrogantly against the pavement. A slight breeze whistled through the streets, batting gently against the long brown bangs.

Annoyed, the man brushed back the bangs with a wave of his fingers.

He looked very much like an old cowboy out of the Wild West. His tanned features were hidden by the ever-present 6'O-Clock shadow generated by the old, dusty brown cowboy hat that sat dormant atop his messy mop of long brown hair. 

A heavy, brown horsehide trench coat fluttered in the breeze, the old sawed-off Remington shotgun displayed for an instant, its dull-gray steel glinting ominously.

The echoing footfalls seemed to taper off as the man slowed to a stop, his clear, golden eyes staring at the old, abandoned warehouse in the distance. A finger gently lifted up the brim of his hat and the radiance of the full moon caught hold of his handsome Hispanic features. 

A small smile drifted across his lips as he slowly wiped his nose. He could already smell the blood, oozing slowly along. 

Could Luthor's boys be anymore clumsy?

The smile grew. 

No matter. Their loss, his gain.

  
  
  
  
  


_New York:_

It was hard to tail a guy in the deserted corridors of an apartment complex. Eventually, he would notice that some guy was following him…besides, Kellmen had been tailing long enough. It was time for some action.

The mercenary quickened his pace. He could feel the adrenaline flowing into his veins. Spastically, his muscles tensed as his fingers ached for the feel of the Bodyguard's mahogany grips. 

It seemed that Kellmen's change in demeanor seemed to almost radiate around. The tall man suspiciously turned, his gray eyes widening as he saw the rough, handsome figure behind him.

"How ya' doin', Bobby?" Rang out Kellmen's voice, an arrogant sneer upon his lips.

Through the years, Kellmen had nearly forgotten just how fast Bobby could be. All those memories returned as Bobby's hand dipped in and out of his pocket, the small Sig Sauer P232 glinting in the artificial light. 

Grimacing, Kellmen dove for the ground as the P232 snarled. The 95-grain bullet burning through the air just millimeters from the mercenary's scalp. As his shoulder thudded against the floor, Frank watched as a lock of his hair floated down after him.

In a fraction of a second, the .38 caliber Bodyguard was in his hands, the 'snubby' tracking the fleeing prey. But by then, Bobby had vanished around the corner.

"Shit!" Growled Kellmen, climbing swiftly to his feet.

It was then that a second figure careened back around the corner, all-human…except for the ridged forehead, clouded, demonic eyes and yellow-tinted fangs.

Kellmen paused as he stared at the Vampire. A smirk came across the walking corpse's face, but with a charming, lop-sided smile, Frank's arm snapped up, the Bodyguard jutting out. With a wink, he calmly triggered the little revolver. 

With a sharp crack, the 180-grain hollowpoint exploded from the stubby barrel. At nearly 900 feet per second, the +P round rocketed through the air. A tremor shot through Kellmen's arm as the gun recoiled sharply, but it wasn't unbearable. Not for him, anyways. 

It is mythical forces that denote that a vampire can only be slain with a wooden stake through the heart, by beheading or by fire. But it is through the laws of physics where one can prove that when a '.38 special' bullet rips into a face - undead or not - at 900 feet per second…it's gonna hurt. A lot.

A shrill, hi-pitched scream erupted from the vampire's mouth as a chunk of his face was torn off. Skin, bone fragments and blood rained through the hall, and without a pause, Kellmen darted forward. With a perverse smile, the mercenary firmly gripped the stake under his arm, and in once smooth motion, pivoted on the balls of his feet, driving the wooden stick into the vampire's heart. 

Using his momentum, Kellmen shot around the corner, viciously pulling out the stake from the vampire.

Strong, fit legs pumped crazily, propelling his 180-pounds of lean, lithe muscle through the halls.

The entrance to the stairway loomed up before him, and gracefully, he slowed to a stop. Kellmen had seen too many young, eager soldiers charge headfirst into a room…only to be greeted by a torrent of lead. He wouldn't make the same mistake. 

Cautiously, he eased open the door. He barely caught the dark shape in the shadows, and he barely pulled back in time to avoid a bullet in the head. Bobby's round ricocheted on the edge of the metal door, tearing through the air back at the mercenary. The round burned through his skin, but Kellmen pointedly ignored it. 

The bullet had skimmed his cheek. Another inch to the right and he would have been a dead man. 

With a snarl, he shot through the door, keeping his head low. Another bullet whistled overhead as Kellmen let loose with a fatal double-tap.

A grunt of surprise echoed through the stairway as the P232 clattered to the ground. 

Shakily, Kellmen climbed back to his feet; keeping the Bodyguard trained upon his adversary.

Two shots to the abdomen had sent the tall man into a world of pain. 

Frank squinted his eyes, staring at the growing pool of crimson blood at the man's stomach.

With a shake of his head, he relaxed, the gun still tight in his fingers.

A weak laugh escaped Bobby's mouth as he stared at his killer.

"Really got me this time…huh." 

The lop-sided smile he had flashed only a few seconds before returned to his lips; yet this time, the warmness glinted in his eyes. Affectionately, he patted Bobby on the shoulder as he leaned down, staring him in the eyes.

"Yeah, I guess I did."

Silence stood heavy in the stairwell, yet there was a slight ringing in Kellmen's ears. But even with his temporarily impaired hearing, there was no mistaking the approaching sirens.

"Where is he, Bobby?" Continued Kellmen. "You wanted him as bad as me. I know you did."

Another chuckle burst from Bobby's lips, lapsing into a fit of vicious coughs as blood streamed from his mouth.

"Guess I was just…too much of a pussy to do anything about it, huh."

Sighing, the dying man weakly rubbed the wound. "I tell you…and you end the pain. Deal?"

Silently, Kellmen nodded.

"Good boy," Muttered Bobby, patting his killer's arm. "Seattle. The blood-suckin' bastard's in Seattle. He's goin' after Luthor. Planning to take over."

Quietly, Kellmen rubbed his unshaved chin, standing to his full height. 

"Thanks." He murmured quietly, shakily sighting down the dying man with his revolver.

Tears began filling in his eyes as the saline streamed slowly down his face. Slowly, he eased back on the trigger.

"I'm gonna miss you."

The final crack echoed about, drowning out the sirens only four levels below. 


End file.
